


Sinful

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: Terms of Submission [1]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Begging, Blindfolds, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, First Time (BDSM), Fluff, Gags, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Rough Sex, Safewords, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9062008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marcus gives in, and Sherlock submits.





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus looked out the café window and concentrated on breathing slowly. His heart was sprinting in his chest, and his throat was so tight that it was unbelievably difficult to breathe. Anxiety filled him, and his skin felt too tight over his face. He rubbed his eyes, huffed out a shaky breath, and stared across the table at Sherlock. He didn’t need to ask why they were meeting here, in a café, like they were a normal couple going on a normal date.

They were anything but normal. _Normal_ people didn’t discuss this sort of thing. _Normal_ people settled for vanilla sex, and jerked off to kinky porn in their own time.

Until now– until Sherlock– Marcus had been normal. He’d been content to accept straightforward sex, instead of thinking more deeply about what he wanted. But, now, everything was different. And Marcus supposed he was grateful for Sherlock, for the boundaries he willingly crossed and the standards he surpassed without hesitation; he’d never been with anyone that had seen this part of him before, had never dated anybody that could read him like an open book.

But that didn’t mean this was easy.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Sherlock was looking back at him with amused eyes. His posture was easeful, relaxed, hands curled around his own coffee. They were on entirely different levels.

“If you’re not comfortable with the idea, Marcus, we don’t need to do this.”

“No,” Marcus flattened his hand on the table, slowly and deliberately, “what I asked was, are _you_ comfortable with this.”

“Yes, Marcus, you know I am. I do have experience in this area, after all, and I was the one to suggest this.”

Marcus nodded, feeling shaky. “Okay. Okay.”

“Once again, Marcus; are you sure? Please speak honestly.”

Marcus fidgeted, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “…You _know_ I am, goddamnit.”

“Precisely.” There was a roguish tilt to Sherlock’s smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And we’ve already discussed this, Marcus, at length. Everything has been established, all the planning completed. Limits, expectations, safewords-”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Marcus interrupted, hiding his face with both hands, “not in public, c’mon.”

“No one here knows us, that’s why we came here. You needn’t worry.”

Marcus heard Sherlock sitting forward, a shift of fabric, the creak of a seat.

“Marcus. Look at me.”

Marcus slowly lifted his head. Met Sherlock’s eyes, and let silence fill the space between them. Marcus couldn’t help but visualise what they were discussing, flesh and skin and erotic scenes of desperation painted in his mind’s eye. He could see those same intimacies flashing in Sherlock’s gaze, and he felt his lips part with a quiet breath.

“I want this,” he whispered, “I’m just…”

“…afraid,” Sherlock murmured, those two syllables rising from his throat in a quiet hum.

Marcus nodded. “I ain’t never done anythin’ like that before. I dunno if I…”

Sherlock leaned forward, taking Marcus’ hand in a smooth movement. Marcus swallowed, starting when their skin touched. Fuck, he was already starting to get hard. Just talking about this. Just thinking about what they were about to do. Just knowing that his fantasies were going to come true. Bringing this _thing_ into reality.

“Give in to it,” Sherlock whispered, his voice barely a breath of sound, his eyes dancing with a sudden intensity, “embrace it fully. I know how much you want this. And you know that I do as well. We can stop at any stage, you know that. I expect that much from you, as you do from me. This is a consenting situation.”

Marcus stared at him, unable to speak. Unable to reply. He nodded, slowly.

Sherlock nodded back, lips closing into a deliberate line.

“Finish your coffee. Take all the time you need to prepare yourself, and come to the brownstone when you believe you’re ready. No one else will be there except me. When you enter the threshold, let all your inhibitions melt away. Leave your doubts and insecurities at the door. Allow yourself to transform.”

Marcus nodded again.

Sherlock stood, and cast one final look at him; a molten look of desire, of need, that had every atom of Marcus’ body yearning to grab him and bend him over right there.

“See you soon,” Sherlock whispered, “very soon.”

Marcus took a long, deep pull of his coffee, and resolutely did not watch him leave.

He couldn’t believe they were about to do this.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Marcus looked up at the brownstone.

The nervousness was still there, like a weight in his chest, but it was fading as his confidence grew.

He’d chosen to dress in a pair of dark jeans, shined shoes, and an ironed dress shirt that he’d only buttoned up his sternum, leaving the collar wide and gaping as an expression of arrogant confidence– his outfit somehow helped him slip into a darker, more dominant mindset. He’d walked to the brownstone, pace slow and unhurried, meeting people’s eyes with an aggressive nonchalance. He wasn’t acting like himself, wasn’t behaving like the tolerant, respectable, kind man he knew he really was; he was becoming someone else. Someone mean. Someone who could do anything.

He knew what was waiting for him inside the brownstone, and his hands itched for it, his body alight with a frenzied desperation. He wanted this. And he was growing more and more familiar with the knowledge that, at this moment, there was nothing stopping him from taking what he wanted. He’d always been careful, adoring with his lovers. Always afraid of going too far. Always so thoughtful and slow.

Now, he didn’t have to be.

A swell of love for Sherlock, for the submissiveness he offered so willingly, filled Marcus so entirely that he could barely breathe. He’d never have been able to ask for this otherwise, and would never have been able to cross this line.

Sherlock trusted him, and it was only for that reason that Marcus was able to trust himself. Marcus tried the handle of the brownstone, found it unlocked. Just as he knew it would be. Just as they’d discussed. Everything had been prepared, ordered, organised.

He went inside.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus went up to Sherlock’s room, where he knew Sherlock would be waiting. The door was ajar slightly, and he pressed a hand to the wood, pushed slowly with the flat of his hand. He let the door creak, just so that he knew Sherlock could hear him entering the room. Not for any kind of considerate reason; he wanted Sherlock to hear him approach, because it made him feel powerful. He wanted his presence to be known, and inspire some kind of emotional response. Perhaps, even, fear.

He stood in the doorway and let himself take in the view.

Sherlock was tied up to the bed, black ropes twining around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the bedposts. He was blindfolded with a strip of black silk, the sheer fabric pulled tightly across his face, enhancing his cheekbones. He was gagged with another piece of fabric, one that was slightly wider, covering half of his chin. He was hard, already shifting on the bed, a leather cock ring obviously causing him some measure of discomfort. Marcus grinned at the state he was in.

They hadn’t even begun yet.

He reached behind him, closed the door harder than necessary. When he saw Sherlock flinch in surprise, he felt a surge of warmth in his chest, a thump of his heart.

“Well,” Marcus drawled, voice flat, a darkly excited expression in his eyes, “what do we have here?”

He approached the bed slowly, enjoying the noises his shoes made on the hard floor; those sharp, businesslike sounds spoke of power, of control, and contrasted beautifully with the helpless man before him. He folded his hands behind his back, letting his eyes roam Sherlock’s body. He was a sight to behold, really, laid out so perfectly like this. There was a sheen of sweat over his tattoos, and Marcus found his eyes drawn to Sherlock’s chest. He’d wondered, before, how he might touch Sherlock. What he would do first.

Now, he knew.

Without warning or preamble, he reached out a hand, and brushed back of one knuckle against Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock flinched, again, having not heard him move– and Marcus was awestruck, utterly intoxicated by how much _power_ he had. The smallest touch of skin, and Sherlock was breathing faster, totally unprepared and caught off-guard.

Marcus smirked, and pulled his hand away, stepping away from the bed. He saw Sherlock tilting his head to the side, trying to follow his movements.

“Waitin’ for me, all tied up and pretty…” Marcus said, reaching down to undo his belt, “must be my lucky day.”

He saw Sherlock’s chest rise with a deep breath, his hands clench as he heard the jangle of Marcus’ belt. There was something intimate about that sound, something that reinforced the balance of power. Marcus pulled at the belt in one swift motion, knowing Sherlock could hear the hush of leather against fabric. Marcus dropped it, intentionally letting it clatter against the floor.

He stood there for a moment, just because he knew that Sherlock had no idea what he would do next, and it excited him beyond measure to know that was the case. His eyes wandered to Sherlock’s spread legs, and he considered it. Considered just fucking him, like this.

But that wasn’t what he wanted.

He wanted this to be slow, at least at first. He wanted to drag tonight out, for as long as Sherlock could take it. They’d practiced, previously, and he knew that Sherlock could take off the gag using his tongue, which meant he could opt out with his safeword whenever he needed to.

Which meant Marcus was free to enjoy himself how he wanted.

He undressed, slowly, letting Sherlock listen. He looked down at himself, and took a deep breath as he realised how hard he was. This was turning him on so fucking much.

Seized by a sudden impulse, he climbed onto the bed, straddling Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock, having been given no warning further than the bed dipping under Marcus’ knees, stiffened in shock as he felt a warm weight settle on top of him. Marcus leaned down, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and he stared straight ahead into the dark fabric over Sherlock’s eyes.

He let the moment stretch on. Sherlock’s breaths were coming faster, now, harder. He was blindly looking upwards, and Marcus could see him squirm under the weight of a gaze he couldn’t meet. Marcus moved one hand, cupped Sherlock’s cheek gently, as if he were handling fine china. His fingers curved around Sherlock’s cheekbone, the edge of his palm against the line of his jaw. It was a loving gesture. A devoted slide of skin against skin. He dragged his thumb down over Sherlock’s gag, where he could feel the curve of lips under silken fabric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

Sherlock tilted his head into the touch, and that was when Marcus grabbed his chin with his other hand. He pulled his arm back, and then swung his hand around in a smooth curve, bringing his palm down swiftly. It connected with Sherlock's face in a vicious slap.

The sound sliced through the air.

Marcus froze after he did it, holding his breath. Sherlock gasped under him, a sharp inhalation, a whimper of shock. Marcus wanted to pull off the gag and demand to know whether Sherlock was alright, but he resisted. Sherlock knew what to do, if he needed this to stop. This was what they’d agreed on. This was what they’d talked about.

So, he seized Sherlock’s face harder, allowed himself to be excited by the way Sherlock was still panting in shock and pain.

“Now,” he growled, “let’s get started.”

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He slid his hands over Sherlock’s body, touching him however he liked. Slow, suspenseful. He felt the curves of Sherlock’s muscular arms, ran his tongue down Sherlock’s chest, stroked his hips. He took his time. The sky darkened outside. Sherlock lay there, breathing calmly, enjoying the sensations– until Marcus, of his own volition, and without warning, brought his hand down against Sherlock’s skin in a sharp slap. Sherlock stiffened, a short cry breaking from his gagged mouth.

He remained tense, afterwards, waiting for the next strike of Marcus’ palm.

Marcus did not hit him again– not while Sherlock was expecting it. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s skin softly, a hum rising from his throat as he licked a wet stripe down Sherlock’s chest, his lips closing over one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock’s harsh breaths slowed, as Marcus knew they would, and the tension began to leak from his body. He’d always loved it when Marcus played with his nipples.

Just when Sherlock had started to moan quietly, his hips unconsciously moving, Marcus drew back, and brought the back of his hand down against the fragile white skin of Sherlock’s left thigh. The slap made a vicious _crack,_ and Sherlock arched off the bed, a choked noise caught in his throat.

“You like that?” Marcus asked, quietly, stroking the inflamed skin, fully aware how much his touch stung.

Sherlock panted in answer, the edges of his breaths turning into whimpers– but his cock was hard, leaking pre-come, revealing how much he enjoyed the pain. Marcus smirked, and– for the first time since they had started– he reached down, and took Sherlock in hand. The reaction was immediate; Sherlock had been hard for so long that he was painfully sensitive, and he could barely stand Marcus' touch. He stiffened, hips twitching upwards, hands clenching into fists, his body tensing up and his arms flexing as he tried to bear the intensity of what he felt.

Seeing this, Marcus grinned cruelly, and tightened his grip. Sherlock moaned, the sound muffled by the gag.

“You do like this,” he mused, moving his hand slowly, speaking casually and thoughtfully, as if Sherlock weren’t coming apart under him, “You like it when I hurt you, huh?”

“Mmh,” Sherlock tried to speak, his words muffled, “Mm-”

Marcus slapped him, hard. Sherlock’s head was thrown to the side, and whatever he’d been trying to say devolved into a helpless cry.

“Shut up. You only talk when I want you to. You feel that gag on your face?” Marcus grabbed a handful of his hair, tightened his fingers, watched Sherlock’s face contort with pain, “that means your opinions don’t mean _shit._ Understand?”

Sherlock lay still, gasping. Marcus pulled his hair harder.

“I asked you if you fucking understand.”

Sherlock nodded. Marcus released him, yanking his hand away sharply.

He continued jerking Sherlock off, but faster now, his hand moving up and down without finesse or mercy; because he knew how it hurt Sherlock, knew how badly he wanted to come. Sherlock’s body jerked and twitched, his hands now white-knuckled and shaking.

“I’m gonna use you,” Marcus breathed, “I’m gonna fuck you, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop me.”

Sherlock’s throat worked as he swallowed, his jaw tight.

“You want it, don’t you? You want me inside you?”

He didn’t give Sherlock any opportunity to form a response or reaction. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips, lifted his waist into the air; without any warning, he pushed into him, hard and without any additional preparation. Sherlock cried out, the sound closer to a sob than a moan. Genuine pain filled his voice, and he tossed his head to the side. Marcus grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he held back his moan.

“God,” he hissed, “tight as a fucking virgin.”

Sherlock’s chest was rising and falling with panicked, erratic breaths. Marcus slowly pulled out, and then immediately drove forward. Sherlock cried out again, trembling. Marcus wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s waist, gripping his hips with fingers that he knew would leave bruises in their wake. He felt a smile, vicious and cruel, blooming on his face, and he let himself give in to a sadism he’d never before allowed to see the light of day.

Then, he started fucking Sherlock.

 

***

 

With every thrust, Sherlock gave a helpless, pained moan, his hands clenched into shaking fists. Marcus had been worried, previously, that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy a man who’d had such a wide breadth of experience with being dominated– but he knew, now, that he needn’t have doubted himself. Sherlock was a raw nerve, utterly vulnerable and helpless. Every noise he made, every broken syllable of desperation, was honest and unveiled. His defences were torn down, crushed, and Marcus fucked him harder than he’d ever fucked anyone in his life. The bedposts slammed against the wall, and the slick sound of slapping skin only served to exaggerate the violence of it all, the unhindered sexuality of Marcus’ ferocity.

“That’s it,” he breathed against Sherlock’s neck, panting against his skin, “take it, fuck. Take it.”

Sherlock moaned helplessly back. It was all he could do.

 

*** 

 

As he came closer to coming, Marcus started to slow down. The change of pace made Sherlock gasp and tremble even more, as Marcus moved gently inside him, slick and tight. It was a more intimate sensation, one that cut to Sherlock’s very core, made him shake with how badly he wanted to come. The heat built inside him, filling him, and he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take the waiting. He needed to come. He needed to come.

He felt Marcus pull out, and he whimpered, the sensation causing a thread of exquisite embarrassment to pump through his veins. He was being fucked, like a dog. Like a bitch.

Sherlock heard a hush of breath from above him, and that was all the warning be received before liquid, slick and warm, dotted his chest. He gasped, realising Marcus had just come, imagining what he must look like. Gagged, blindfolded, tied up, another man’s semen on his skin. The helplessness of his situation, and how much he loved being used, had his skin prickling with a heat so intense it almost felt icy. He was shaking.

Marcus’ fingers were against his face, tugging at the gag, pulling it off. Sherlock gasped.

“Please, I need to come-” he began.

The slap came without warning, and he couldn’t help but sob.

“I mean,” he tried again, words broken apart by hitched breaths, “I mean, thank you, Marcus,”

“That’s right.” Marcus growled, “Whore.”

Sherlock breathed hard, and did not ask again. Fingers touched gently to his burning cheek, and Sherlock whimpered, trying to twitch his face away out of pure instinct. Tears were gathering in his eyes, blurring what little vision he did have.

“It’s a good thing I enjoyed myself. I’m gonna reward you for that.”

Sherlock could’ve cried from happiness. When Marcus’ hand closed around his cock, however, he shuddered.

“The- the ring,”

“I ain’t takin’ it off yet.”

“But-”

Marcus’ hand tightened, and Sherlock convulsed.

“Is that a _demand_ I hear?”

“No, no,” Sherlock could hear his voice shake, “no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“I’ll take it off when you’re broken. You’re still fuckin’ speakin', so you ain’t broken yet.”

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock started crying.

He didn’t know how long it’d been, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t breathe. His body was on fire.

“Please,” he managed to sob.

“Please _what?”_ Marcus asked, a smile evident in his voice. He didn’t realise the point Sherlock had reached. “Huh?”

“Take it off, it hurts,” Sherlock cried, genuine tears spilling down his cheeks, dampening the silk blindfold “ _Moriarty,_ Marcus,”

Marcus froze.

“Shit,” Marcus whispered, and then the pressure of the ring disappeared, accompanied by the panicked fluttering of his hands, “tell me what you need, Sherlock, I’m so sorry-”

“Come. Need to come,” Sherlock was shaking now, uncontrollably, and he knew he’d crossed the line; he couldn’t restrain the tremors that shook through him, or the sobs that hitched in his throat. He’d never had to use his safeword before. He didn’t know why he’d reached this point. He’d had far more extreme dominant partners in the past, who had left him with welts and bleeding cuts, yet he’d never come anywhere near the edge. Maybe it was simply because Marcus was his partner. Maybe it was because their relationship meant something, and Marcus’ very existence had become Sherlock’s driving force.

“I got you, I got you,” Marcus was whispering, his voice full of fear; a switch had been flipped, and his usual loving, caring, adoring nature had returned. Sherlock wanted to tell him it was all okay. He wanted Marcus not to be worried.

But all he could do was shake.

In no short amount of time, he came. The sensation, after the anguish he’d just experienced, was not unlike taking some kind of mind-altering drug, and he slipped away into white noise without so much as a moan.

 

***

 

When he woke up, he did not move.

His body ached, and his cheek was throbbing. He licked tentatively at his bottom lip and tasted blood, felt a dull sting as he probed the split flesh. He opened his eyes, and realised he must’ve entered subspace.

He’d always associated a kind of spiritual revelation with subspace; the sense of floating, being unbound and unfocussed, being empty... it was his religion. He hadn’t been able to reach it very many times before, and never like this. Never so completely. He lay still and found that, while he’d come crashing down from the euphoric high, his brain was still chugging along at a slow, unhurried pace. Deductions were not filling his mind. He was not analysing the world around him. He was…

…at peace.

He saw Marcus approach the bed, his face tight and worried.

“Sherlock? Hey, hey, look at me.” Marcus knelt on the bed, hands hesitating, as if he didn’t trust himself to touch Sherlock. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise-”

“You were perfect,” Sherlock mumbled. He reached over to gently touch his hand to Marcus’ knee, and realised he’d been untied. “It was perfect.”

Marcus swallowed, troubled and unconvinced. “But you had to use your safeword.”

“A person,” Sherlock began, words loose and jumbled, his eyes falling closed, “may find their limit at any stage in a roleplay situation. On any other day, I may have had another hour in me. Today was not that day.”

“So, you’re… You’re okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled, the expression lazy and content on his lips, “Yes, I am.”

He opened his eyes again, and gazed at Marcus. He let all the love he’d never professed aloud pour into his expression, let the deepest devotion he felt for this man show on his face. He didn’t know whether he’d ever tell Marcus how he really felt, but that was alright. One day, he’d be able to say it. One day, he’d know how to bare himself the way he had to Irene.

“Stay with me?” Sherlock asked quietly.

He was asking, of course, whether Marcus would lie with him. But Marcus’ expression slackened, the worry and fear fading from his face, his eyes softening. He had seen what Sherlock wanted him to see. Had heard the confession of love Sherlock may never be able to give properly.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied gently as he lay down, and Sherlock knew his answer doubled as a commitment; an unspoken profession of devotion to match Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock closed his eyes, settled into the warmth of Marcus body. Head on his chest. Hand on his navel. Legs pressed against legs.

Safe.

There was a long silence. Sherlock floated in it, his limbs rubbery and weak. They didn’t identify the silent pact they’d both just made. They didn’t talk about love, or relationships, or what the future might hold– and that was just fine. They didn’t need to.

“…I don’t wanna do that again.”

Sherlock frowned, and looked up at him. Marcus looked troubled again.

“Why not? You enjoyed it, that much was obvious.”

Marcus drew a hand down Sherlock's shoulder tenderly, and gave a small shake of his head.

“Yeah, when I was in the moment I enjoyed it. But now, I…” he reached up and gently brushed his thumb over the split in Sherlock’s lip, “…Christ. You look like you’ve been beaten up. And I don’t wanna be the reason you look like this, no matter how much we enjoy it. We can do other stuff, but I ain’t hittin’ you again.”

Sherlock noted the seriousness in his voice, and considered arguing the point. But he decided against it, and lay back down.

“Alright.”

“Thank you. And… thanks for trustin’ me. With what we did tonight. It’s an intense thing, lettin’ someone do that to you.”

Sherlock smiled, and didn’t say that it’d been easy for him, didn’t say that he’d trust Marcus to save his life if it ever came to that.

“The pleasure was mine,” he replied quietly, “and mine alone, Marcus.”

Marcus laughed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well wouldja look at that, i managed to make a pwp bdsm fic into a romance  
> HOPE U ENJOYED THE FIC, THANK U FOR READING <3


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